Second page VI

 

The night came. It brought its band with it. Crickets, light bugs, frogs, the wind and the clouds. All moving around, watching the airplanes arrive and leave. Which airplane will give me this I am needing? At least  my kid enjoys them passing by, not now, of course, he sleeps. I go downstairs and take a walk. The moon is announced. Glow. I think again, look up and try to find an answer, but I got some other questions instead.  For instance, why are we looking for answers? Why this impulse for explanations? I always hear this expression: make sense. What if not? Is waking up early, spending ten hours everyday in a warehouse, the kind of things we state as make sense? It doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter because the sense making can turn into merchandise, to then pose at any sort of exhibition and  go available for purchase, and thus grant us the sense, a sense of any need now fulfilled.  That’s why we want, need, wish for and even have to,  pretty often indeed; go shopping. So it is something serious to feel like going shopping and not having money for it. How do we code that? How do we link such a feeling to any of our memories? Buying power might stand for as one of the fewest things you have to counter strike the sadness you can’t take out. Perhaps that’s why politicians love to sell the idea that poverty can be solved from the government, as long as real power gets confided through the illusion of choosing, mostly by an election campaign. We still talk about choosing,  about freedom. Free is an interesting word. The way I get it is a little different in its intention from the word we have in Spanish.  I tend to think it has more to do with the, let’s say,  bypass of an obligation: duty free, free ticket, rather than free life, free time. Even writing it is strange. We all sat in the break room while having lunch, telling us again, these never ending past glories. There is not much to tell about our present life. We look into this symbolic suitcase, where we store those precious moments we show through the talking.  I often remain quiet. I mean, my present is my son, which is my world.

 

There comes another sunset. A few bubbles for my lips. Some kids playing while these words take place. It is the soundtrack of the moment. A moment to look, to remember. Specially a moment to wonder. Am I getting any raise? Will I? The beer gets hot pretty fast. Faster than my ideas, indeed. The way the woman treated me today. Yes. Is it true that such rejection is actually over racist purposes? Will my children have to deal with it? I can’t tell. I was a tourist once. Now I’m a resident. Hope travels and expectations grows like any other tree. We become the gardeners of our beliefs.  Perhaps that’s why we should not take drags of our faith into smoke.  Our faith has traveled too. The smell. The decadence. A couple of what ifs with some why nots around. I’m not that old, you know. My hands never stops following patterns of imaginary beats. My mind is constantly evocating: songs, names, skins I would like to taste, glances I would love to catch; for myself, for my own amusement.  For my fingers to walk by, for my eyes to marble by looking closely. I have to take my glasses off to do that. I am officially stepping into that age when presbyopia and prostate testing are becoming part of any conversation I may have. Nevertheless I allow myself to draw this picture in my mind. I closed my eyes. I look up, and then I start placing these ifs and woulds, then I smile. All these while the notes of a great song is playing through my earbud. Yes, just one, and carefully. Boss may not like it. This is how I’ve found this bearable.  Too many days doing the same thing. Purpose must be solid. Mine actually is. This is just a let go moment. Break is over. Another moment for a few words. Anyone can guess where I am writing and why I have to put it on hold while I get back to work. A mix of scents some of them of good food. Meal time. Few voices saying something; anything. Several quiet glances, glasses off.  I wait. Some smiles over their phones. What could I girl be talking about that a smile is drawn on her face as she writes? Maybe it’s not about what but who, and who suggests somebody,  and somebody suggests that the person is not unknown, on the contrary, it must be someone special. We can affirm that such a smile takes place out of a compliment,  or a funny tale, an invitation, or a proposal. Is the smile a form of consent? We lost the baby, by the way. The one who was coming. I want to believe that he just didn’t want to be in this world. He brought me hope, he brought me faith. He was going to be a beautiful little brother, or sister. God bless you. Please tell God we were here eager to take care of you, to love you as we always will, to do the best for you as we do it for your big brother. Tell God we are sad. Tell God we’ll be waiting.  Another morning. I must have everything done. I woke up a little late. I’m going to be late for work. Grieve. I haven’t had time for it. Perhaps this is why I’ve been writing with this sad vibe so far: I need to grieve. I don’t blame you. You decided to stay with God.  Maybe someday we’ll meet and you will let me know. First break. I got this blurry vision. People are quieter. I guess it is early for them. The sounds of the machines once more: a beat popping up my concerns; what should I do with them? Procrastinate. Money is the only one resource it takes to sweep them away. What about the sadness? I’m keeping it. I want to grieve properly. I want to cry and wonder; to then wish I had, or wish you were,  but specially wish you hadn’t gone. I want to think, if possible, you’re still there, as the little soul I imagine you must be, giving us the chance to make you a new body, so you can join us.